


In A Different Place

by bodiesnotourown (Israfael), lybella



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Torture, Destiel - Freeform, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Israfael/pseuds/bodiesnotourown, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lybella/pseuds/lybella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world full of angels, Dean has no wings, but what he has instead is an ability that makes him a prime target for those who seek to abuse it. After Azazel shows up on Sam's eighteenth birthday and an angel named Castiel starts showing up in his dreams, Dean is ripped from his simple life of hunting and thrust into an adventure he really, really, wants no part in. </p><p>Thumbelina themed story. A chapter will be posted once per week until finished. Will be eventual Dean/Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwanted Guest

On the eve of Sam Winchester’s 18th birthday, the last thing Dean expected to see was the yellow-eyed man at their front door.

He knew the story. How Mary Winchester, rent barren from a series of miscarriages, had been visited by a man with yellow eyes who had promised her a child.

“Oh, how skeptical I was!” Mary would tell him, cuddling with him as he dozed before bedtime. She would laugh, and assure him that no matter how skeptical she was, that he had seemed harmless enough. Even John agreed with her, if it could truly give them the child that they hoped for. All the man asked for was a favor at a later date. It was here in the story that Mary would pause again, her laughter always sounding like ringing bells to Dean’s little ears, and she would wrap him in her soft wings.

“I never expected it to work! I thought that he would offer us some herbs to help increase fertility, not simply touch my stomach and leave as quickly as he had appeared. But nine months later, there you were!” She would exclaim and tickle him until he was breathless.

He was ten years old when he met the yellow-eyed man for the first time. He appeared on the front step of their small cottage, much like the present. Dean remembered bursting with excitement at meeting the man responsible for, well, him. As he peeked out at the man from behind Mary’s wings, he felt shy for the first time in his short life. He knew that his parents loved him and that little baby Sammy seemed pretty fond of him, but this was different.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean swallowed hard and stepped out from behind his mother only to watch as the smile slipped from the man’s face and feel clawlike fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, spinning him around.

“No wings?!” The man spat before throwing Dean to the ground.

No wings.

“You whore! That is not the child I gave you!” As he struck Mary across her cheek, Dean picked himself up, blood soaking his shirt from the man tearing at his shoulder. Before he could make it far, however, his mother’s wings flared up behind her, shielding him.

“I have no use of a defect! This is how you repay me?”

“He was born without wings! He is the same child!” Mary’s cries filled his ears before they were cut off and he heard the splash of liquid hitting the wood floor and felt a wet warmth against his bare feet.

The blood was thick enough that within a few moments it coated his feet. As he opened his mouth to scream, Mary collapsed, her once soft feathers soaking up the fluid spilling from the tear in her abdomen. Sickly yellow eyes glared down at her and at Dean, before vanishing. The pop and crack of a fire caught the boy’s attention and with wide eyes, he looked around to see the flames lapping at the walls.

“Sammy.” Mary gurgled, red foam bubbling out around her mouth. Dean stumbled backwards, sliding on the blood before he fell. He couldn’t scream or cry, transfixed by the pale hand reaching for him.

“My sweet...Dean. Please. Dean, save your brother.” She coughed, struggling to breathe past the blood. “Dean, save Sam.” He watched as his mother’s eyes clouded over and her hand dropped to the ground.

Dean scrambled to stand and threw himself towards his little brother’s room, for once in his childhood, grateful for the lack of cumbersome wings to weigh him down. He pushed through the agony of placing his hands on the heated door and knob to grab a hysterical Sam out of his bed. He wrapped him in a thick blanket, hiding the glowing golden fluff sprouting from his back.

He ran, the smoke choking him until he reached the crisp air, Sam’s small hand clasped in his. His feet touched the cold blades of grass outside of the house, only to see yellow eyes staring down at him once more, hungrily taking in the small flash of gold from a hole in the blanket. When his father returned home an hour later, Dean and Sam were still sitting in the yard, watching as the house burned down in front of them. The yellow eyed man was nowhere to be found.

  
  


But now the creature responsible for his mothers death and the destruction of his family stood, smiling benevolently at him. “Ah Dean-o. It’s been a long time.”

Dean attempted to slam the door shut, but was thrown backwards by the force of the door being blown off its hinges. He hit the opposite wall, and slid down, stunned. He shook his head to clear the black spots floating in his vision.

“Dean!” He blinked, one hand coming up to lightly touch the back of his head, fingers coming away bloody. When he glanced back up from his red fingertips, shining gold feathers filled his sight. Sam loomed in front of him, his wings spread out in front of Dean, so much like his mother’s the night she died.

“Oh now this is just the boy I came here for. Happy Birthday, Sammy.” The man all but cooed at Sam, his filthy and dull grey wings shuddering in a repulsive manner.

Dean pushed himself upwards, and past his brother’s wings. “You stay away from him, you son of a bitch.” He growled.

“Dean what is going on? Who is this?” Sam’s worried voice only made Dean that much more defensive, pulling a hunting knife from his belt. The man clapped his hands together and laughed.

“Oh Dean. Calm down. I am just here to, let’s say, offer a deal to young Sam.”

“Not a chance!” Dean yelled at the same time Sam exclaimed “Me?!”

The man laughed again and what felt like a fire exploded in Dean’s stomach. He doubled over in agony, tears springing to his eyes before he was again tossed out of the way like a ragdoll. When he picked his head up, he watched, fuzzily, as the man pinned his brother to a wall, raking his fingers through Sam’s once orderly feathers. Sam struggled against whatever the man was using to hold him down, squirming in discomfort as his wings were so thoroughly violated. It was a sexual act reserved for long term mates, and it enraged Dean to see his brother all but molested in front of him.

“Mmm yes, you will do nicely. Such lovely wings. A sure sign of the perfect Arch. Big, fertile, and tell me, Sam, any special tricks you have up your sleeve?” He leaned in close and Dean could see his brother recoil.

“You see, I’ve been looking for a good mate for my sweet Lilith. Not many people can stand up to her affections and I’ve been looking for an Arch like you for months. So many have been just so disappointing.” He gripped Sam’s face, bruisingly so, in his fingers, turning his head as if inspecting him. “So muscular as well for such a young Arch. It’s a pity Dean couldn’t live up to his potential and be the specimen he was meant to be but you have just what I am looking -”

“Take me.”  Dean whispered, coughing up a small amount of blood. “Take me and leave him alone.”

“Dean! No!” Sam grunted as his head was slammed backwards into the wall.

“Please. Just take me.” The pain was excruciating, but Dean tried to hold his head up, even as it ratcheted higher as the man considered him.

“Why on earth would I need a defect? You wouldn’t last an hour.” He dismissed the plea and started pulling Sam with him, despite the younger angel trying to break his grip.

“Wait! Just look you asshole.” Dean tried again before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he opened them, Sam was shaking his head vigorously, horrified.

“Dean, you can’t!”

The yellow eyes on him showed interest for the first time as the cuts in his skin stitched themselves back together. His breathing eased as the broken ribs in his chest fused back together and the hole in his lungs healed over.

“Not possible.” The man growled, releasing Sam and stalking over to Dean, hauling him upwards by a fist of hair.

Dean smiled grimly. “Not as broken as you thought. Isn’t this better than a pair of obnoxiously loud wings?”

“I assume you want to make a deal?” The man’s smile chilled Dean to the bone but he pressed on.

“I want you to never come near my brother again.”

The man snarled. “Fine. We have a deal.” He leaned in close and Dean forced himself to swallow down the bile as the smell of wrongness filled his nostrils. It was the same feeling and scent he captured whenever he and his brother were out hunting the monsters that hunted angels. What was that doing on a person?

Despite Sam’s eyes pleading with him to stop, he reached forward and shook his hand. “This little trick of yours is quite interesting Dean-o. We are going to have so much fun together.” With that he flicked his wrist and Sam smacked hard into a bookshelf, Dean yelled as his brother’s body crumpled to the floor.

“You asshole! We made a deal! You don’t get me unless he is unhurt!”

“Asshole is nice, but Azazel is the name you are looking for, Dean. Your brother will be fine. You on the other hand...” Dean felt a sharp agony behind his eyes and everything went black.


	2. Bruising Dark Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hello, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This is where the story lives up to its explicit warning** , not just for sex but also for gore and torture, so put on your big kid panties and let's do this thing.
> 
> 2014.09.19: Minor edits made.

When he awoke, he found himself tied to a large bed in a cold stone room. He jerked at the icy, metal restraints around his wrists until they were raw and bloody. Not that it mattered, as the injury healed itself in a few short seconds. Angrily he cursed his lack of normal angel ability and strength. He shivered as a cold breeze blew across his lightly dressed body. His head ached, and he set to work on dislocating a wrist, with the hope of sliding it out of the restraint, when a slight blonde girl entered into the room through a heavy wooden door and locked it behind her. She wore a sheer white shift and her blond curls bounced against her breasts as she walked towards him.

She instantly repulsed him; the same smell of blood and evil pervading his senses.

“Oh dear. Daddy was right. You are _very_ pretty.” She giggled, high and light, and his skin crawled. This must be Lilith. Her wings shone as white as her dress but he could see the waves of heavy illusion surrounding her. One second she would appear to be about his age, and then the next she would seem to be a child.

“It’s such a shame about your defect, though Daddy promises me that any children we produce he can fix.” Dean bit down on the gag in his mouth, glaring at her.

_Children?_

He struggled against the restraints more, despite the burn starting in his limbs from the position. “Oh darling.” She trailed her perfect nails down his cheek and his neck. “Don’t struggle. I’ll take such good care of you.”

He screamed through the gag as her nails dug into his flesh around his collarbone. He could feel her scraping the bone and he fought back the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes. The delight in hers after she pulled her fingers out of his flesh scared him, his body automatically kicking in to heal itself.

“Oh yes. Such good care of you.”

She started by pulling a small thin blade off of a table just outside of Dean’s sight. He dreaded each stitch as they popped, one by one, as she sliced through his shirt and pants. She hummed as she worked, finishing by removing the scraps and leaving the cold blade to rest on his navel. He worked to control his breathing, lest the knife slip and open his belly.

“So very pretty.” Lilith sighed, climbing onto the bed and straddling his hips. “Just think,” she slid her fingers through his hair, “if you are this pretty now, I can not imagine how you will look as I fuck you.”

Before Dean could process what she had said, Lilith had grabbed a cup off of the same table from which the knife had come. She ripped the gag from his mouth and poured the liquid in, letting him choke on it as he tried to breathe. Her delighted laughter filled his ears as the room became just a little hazy and his head swam. He groaned.

“Sweet, beautiful Dean. Can you feel it?” She reached down to caress his lower stomach. “The funny thing about living in this castle is the small clan of succubi in the forests.” Her hand slipped further down and as her fingers rubbed his cock, he bucked, eyes widening in shock as he felt himself harden in her grip. “The effect of their venom is just the right amount of extra to add to the bedroom, don’t you think?” She purred, continuing to stroke him.

“Bitch.” He spat, and he winced as she slapped him hard enough his neck would have broken if it hadn’t been for the pillow under it.

“Lilith.” She sang before leaning over to nuzzle his neck. “And don’t worry. Soon enough you’ll be screaming my name.”

Quick as lightning to his drugged mind, she pulled the knife from where it was caught between them on his stomach and he felt the tissue in his neck give way as it sliced deep across his throat. He gagged, wet sucking noises sounding as he tried to breathe through the thick globs of his blood flowing down his neck and pooling on the bed underneath him. He tried to control his panic, fighting his bodies every instinct to do so. He could feel whatever it was that enabled him to heal, trying to work past the venom and reform the ruined mess of his throat. He felt blistering hot and like he was skinny dipping in a frozen pond at the same time as he tried to focus on shoving as much energy as he could into healing himself.

It took several minutes of Lilith perched over him, eyes delighted and swimming with glee, until he was healed enough to breath without the pain. She swiped her fingers through the quickly cooling blood on the sheets and slipped her hands under the see-through dress to coat her body with it. She dripped his blood over her hips and rubbed it into the soft mounds of her chest. As she bent over to suck at the still gaping wound, Dean thrashed as hard as he could to keep her away from him. Laughing to herself, she changed direction to slither down his body, leaving trails of his own blood in streaks down his torso.

When her mouth closed around his dick, it burned and he fought back the urge to cry out. His skin felt as if it would blister from the heat and he dug his fingernails into his palms in an attempt to distract himself. He tried to buck her off of him, but it simply resulted in her digging her nails into his hips to hold him down. His head swam from the pain, but also from the sickeningly increasing pleasure. The venom kept him erect and desperate, despite his revulsion.

Every swipe of her tongue was as excruciating as it was good. As blood filled the gouges formed in his palms, Dean fought to keep them from healing, even after his throat was once more smooth and unblemished, but it was futile. Every pull of her mouth detached him from reality, the room spinning until all he could focus on was the burning of his flesh and his need. He was barely cognizant of her pulling off with a wet pop and pulling herself up to straddle his hips once more. His spine bowed as she nipped at the newly healed flesh of his throat and he could hardly make a noise before she lifted her hips and his dick slid into her.

He gasped for air, feeling as if his blood had been replaced with acid and he felt on the verge of passing out as she set a bruising pace with the lift and fall of her body. He pulled at the restraints with fervor, no longer trying to escape but to get his hands on her so he could slam into her as hard as he could as the venom burned away everything beside the need to climax. As Lilith continued to mock him, though slightly breathless, he thrust upwards with as much force as he could manage, and soon he was coming, emptying himself into her for what felt like an eternity. She rode him through the aftershocks before climbing off and rearranging the blood soaked shift around her hips. She caressed his face once more, nails leaving angry raised lines on his forehead and cheeks.

“Thank you, Dean. My father will be so pleased.” She walked out, her cackling laugh sounding more like that of an old woman than a young one. When the door closed, he rolled over as much as he could before vomiting, blood flecking the bile.

\-------

Minutes later, although it could have been hours to Dean as his body worked to remove the succubus poison, servants arrived. With cool cloths they wiped away the blood and semen drying on his skin and pull the sheets out from under him. One kind-faced woman used the cloths to clean at his hair, which had been lying in the blood, after they unchained his arms from the bed so he could sit up. He huffed a small bitter laugh. He was too drained from the venom and being forced to heal himself so much to lift his head from his chest, let alone try and escape. The women bathed him as well as they could and force-fed him some soup and water before he couldn’t stay upright any longer and he fell back down onto the fresh blankets underneath him.

He closed his eyes for what felt like a moment, but when he opened them again, all of the servants were gone, and Azazel stood over him, leering.

“Well I see you survived my darling daughter for one night at least.”

Dean tensed as the man’s hand slid over his thigh, perilously close to his groin. Azazel’s skin was cold and clammy, and his voice slid over Dean like oil. He glared up at the man. “Laugh it up. When I get out of here, you and that hell spawn of yours are dead.”

“Don’t be like that, boy.” Azazel tsked. “You volunteered for this after all. You try to escape and I will bathe in your precious brother’s entrails.” The man’s hand dipped further between Dean’s legs and Dean felt his skin break out in a cold sweat.

“Fuck off.”

The chuckle from the other man made Dean’s stomach roll, but the roaming hand did move from his groin to cup his chin.

“What language. Hopefully my grandchildren will be much better behaved.” Azazel’s fingertip traced Dean’s bottom lip and he lunged forward, biting down on it as hard as possible. The blood that hit his tongue tasted of rotting meat and he spit it out at the man.

“You insolent maggot!”

The dagger in his stomach should not have been a surprise to Dean, but he still released a breathless groan as he was impaled by it and again as it was ripped back out.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Azazel tutted, wiping the blood off of the blade on the side of the bed and probing the wound with his long, thin, fingers. “That was wholly unnecessary.” He chastised. Dean cringed as the man brought his red fingertips to his mouth and he sucked the liquid off of them. A low moan filled the room as Azazel closed his eyes in an expression close to ecstasy. “You’ve been holding out on me I see.”

He opened his eyes to watch as the small wound Dean had inflicted closed and was erased as if it had never happened. “Holding out indeed. What a wonderful flaw you turned out to be.” His smile was sharp enough to cut and it filled Dean’s vision before he succumbed to the exhaustion of forcing his body to heal once more, and he fell asleep.

He dreamed of ravenous mouths and gnashing teeth rending his flesh from his bones, clawed fingers tearing through sinew and muscle. It was too fast, too much, and panic set in as the nightmare continued. He couldn’t heal, his body wouldn’t respond to his pleading as blood oozed from rips and bites. Tears squeezed out or his eyes and he stared into the black nothingness around him and felt himself slipping away.

Then he saw them, a pair of calm blue eyes burning through the darkness, setting the things around him ablaze, pushing back the ripping claws. The eyes were like a cooling balm, washing away the burning pain. He sunk into the deep blue, knowing he would be safe, the monsters in his head held at bay and he rested.

\----------

In Lilith’s care, hours flowed into days and days into weeks and Dean quickly lost track of how long he had been chained to a bed. At least once a day, the bitch would climb on top of him and ride him until his body betrayed him and he would come, gagging on bile. After what he thought might have been the first month, Dean’s body started to reject the succubus venom. Lilith would laugh as he started choking it all back up, until more blood started coming out than vomit, and the red liquid would seep from his nose as well. But even once the poison could no longer be forced into his mouth, she started slathering his dick with a paste made from the poison to ensure he was hard enough for her. He stopped trying to puke his insides out, but he would still end up cold and nauseous for hours after her affections. His days were endless, and he longed to be left alone, hoping to find even a semblance of peace in sleep but the torture followed him into his dreams.

His only relief lay in those blue, blue eyes and their appearance was few and far between. Sometimes they were accompanied by a low voice murmuring soothing words into Dean’s ears but he could never remember what they were, just the sound of the voice. Sometimes there were phantom touches, invisible hands gently comforting him, so vast a change from the mauling he was used to it was almost painful in its own way. Thinking of those dreams was sometimes the only way that he got through the torture of the day.

In his waking hours he was never alone for long. Whenever the blond hair had bounced out his room, the female servants would return, clean him of all fluids and, to his initial horror, excrement, but when they left new people started to arrive. Men that would spend hours upon hours poking and prodding at his body, testing the limits of his healing abilities. Azazel made frequent appearances during the sessions, smiling with delight every time Dean was able to pull himself back together. He thought the bastard would come in his pants from the expression on his face as a hatchet met flesh and Dean’s right arm was severed from his body, and then again from irritation as it stayed severed.

“Sew...it...back on.” The captive ground out from teeth clenched in pain.

Once sewn back on, the hour it took to force enough of himself into the wound to re-attach muscles and nerves was quite possibly one of the longest in his life and he was left sweating and delirious. He thought he could see a man standing next to the bed, and a deep, gravely voice begging him to just breathe. He blinked and there was his brother as a child, crying for a father that abandoned them. The people standing over him were just blurs and voices that sounded as if they were coming from miles away.

Until a clear, sharp, slice down his left forearm snapped him back to reality. He jerked, and let out a gasp that quickly turned into a laugh tinged with hysteria.

“Good luck with that, assholes.” He smirked as the jar they held up to collect his blood, barely had even a drop in it. His body was overworked and the loss of blood taking effect in addition to his skin already reforming.

“Cut him deeper!” Azazel snarled at the men, who tried again at his urging, but still only a small thin stream made it down to the glass before stopping.

Dean knew he was just making it worse for himself, but he couldn’t stop laughing, though it was closer to small giggles. His vision was black around the edges, and as much as he tried to summon up fear, anger, anything, it just wouldn’t work and he wondered if he might not be going crazy.

Even when the scalpel blade jabbed into the side of his throat and the blood finally came pouring out; he let out a weak chuckle. He was going to die soon enough anyways. Maybe not that day or the next, but he could feel himself letting go. They were going to go too far one day, and he wasn’t going to be able to fix it fast enough.

At least Sam was safe.

“Oh Dean-o, don’t pass out on us now.” Azazel cooed as he stroked his victim’s face. “The best part is just starting after all.”

He watched in a vague sort of horror as Lilith was called into the room and without a moments hesitation began to drink the collected liquid from the jar. Azazel ran his fingers through her hair and placed a kiss on her forehead, in a perverted show of fatherly pride, as she licked the last few drops from the rim of the bottle. Dean was sure that if the room around him hadn’t been so far away, he would have been shocked as the yellow eyed bastard’s hand plunged through her stomach and out the other side. When he pulled it back out again, coated in blood, Azazel smiled, watching his daughter convulse on the ground.

“Now now, let’s see if it is worth it to not go back and scoop up that little brother of yours, hmm?”

When Lilith’s tremors ceased, Dean found himself begging whatever deity might have been listening for her death. He didn’t pray to any of the gods that roamed about, but he fervently focused on getting even a small response. It was in vain. Her abdomen was soon smooth under her frilly white dress, and when Azazel gripped her arm to help her up, the joy in her eyes terrified him. The ache in his throat was terrible, but it gave him something else to focus on as she ordered the men to continue cutting at his flesh.

Wrists, forearms, and slices across his stomach. He couldn’t keep up with them in addition to his throat and soon he was found himself shutting down both physically and mentally. He tried to think about his younger brother and hoped that he wouldn’t be looking for him. That he would take Dean’s deal with Azazel as their goodbye and go be happy with that pretty blonde thing he knew Sam had been eyeing.

When Sam’s face rippled and faded away, he worked to replace it with his mother’s. He knew he had slipped into hallucinating again as he thought he felt her warm arms around him and heard her laugh. His head lolled to the side, as he thought he heard John Winchester telling him that to ‘buck up’, but no one was there. Not even Azazel.

He blinked himself awake, the memory of torture only a few hours old clouding his vision. The dark stone cell was freezing but he was starting to forget what being truly warm and clothed even felt like.

When had they moved him there?

He tried to move around the cell, but even a few simple steps brought him crashing to the ground, muscles weak from months of disuse. He smiled bitterly. The only reason he would be out of that damned room would be if Azazel’s precious princess had finally conceived. He sighed, scrubbing his face with a hand before crawling, on burning limbs, to the farthest corner of the cell. The stone floor felt harsh on his skin, but he relished the sensation.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean twisted his head towards the bars, searching out the source of the voice. Nothing. After a few moments he shrugged, chalking it up to the months of venom induced fever dreams and pain hallucinations until he turned his head back towards the back of the cage and a man crouched before him. He threw himself back a few inches, only to move a little closer as the image of the angel flickered.

“You’re all right. You were in such agony.” Dark eyes looked him over with concern

“Please. I can’t keep this up long.” The image’s blue eyes nagged at Dean but he couldn’t fathom as to why.

“What are you? Ghost? Remnant?”

“My name is Cas-”

Dean froze as the blue-eyed man vanished. “Hello? Uh, Cas?"

Silence was the only answer he received.

 

 


	3. Run Boy Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Be a dear, Uriel, and fuck off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the skipped week of fic! This chapter is longer to make up for it! 
> 
> Also, class, everyone say hello to Balthazar and Uriel. 
> 
> If you would like to keep up with anything that might be going on with the story or anything else we have written head on over to www.lybrafael.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> 2014.09.19: Minor edits made.

The next week passed in relative peace, he was only dragged to the bloodletting once. The rest of the time he worked himself to rebuild the muscle strength he had lost. He paced around the perimeter of the cell until he could walk without using the bars for support, and then pushed himself to collapse with physical work. He could feel the strength returning to his limbs everyday.

“Dean?”

Dean jerked awake, his body instinctively rolling up into a defensive crouch before his brain kicked the haze of sleep. He’d passed out on the floor of his cell, exhausted and bored. Within inches of his face, bright blue eyes blinked at him. The hard rock of the wall bit into his back as he jerked away. Cas, or so he had called himself, reached out as if to keep him from harming himself, but his hand simply passed through Dean’s shoulder. He looked disappointed and burned out as the image flickered around the edges.

“I should be able to touch you. I don’t know why this isn’t working.” The frustration was clear in his voice, causing Dean to smile ruefully.

“So you’re not a ghost then?”

Confusion caused dark eyebrows to furrow. “Why do you keep asking if I am deceased?”

Dean laughed and gestured at his visitor. “Man, you are see through and you can’t touch anything.”

“I am not a ghost but I may not last long-” The image flickered again, completely disappearing before appearing again. He spit out a curse in a language Dean didn’t understand.

“Cas?”

The angel smiled, a small upturn of the corner of his mouth. “That is not actually my name.” He said, but before Dean could ask any further, Cas continued to speak. “I need your help, Dean. I don’t know why you are the only person I can speak to. I heard you, your cries for help lead me here. I should be able to contact my brother but I-” He faded out again, garbling whatever he was trying to say, before becoming clear again. “-In the tunnels. You need to escape and find-”

He flickered in and out. Dean made a frustrated noise, fighting the urge to try and grab the translucent angel and pull him into reality. “-He can help you. Find me. Please.”

Cas winced and Dean copied the action. “Find who, Cas? Where are you?” Cas smiled that half smile again, seemingly unable to hear what Dean was saying anymore, before sharply turning his head to look at something to his side. He watched the quick flicker of terrified expressions on the man’s face before he turned to lock his blue eyes with Dean’s green. His mouth moved, but his voice was gone, lost as the image flickered and disappeared.

“Cas? Cas!” Dean slammed his fist into the stone wall in anger. He felt bones snap and crack but the pain did not last long. He spent a few moments watching the blood drip from his hand, even as the skin scraped by the rough wall healed over and the bones realigned. He couldn’t even be sure as to why he felt so angry that the angel had been taken away so suddenly. He knocked the back of his head against the wall of his cell.

_Bright blue eyes._

He continued to replay the strange visit from Cas over and over again in his mind trying to remember any details he may have missed. A hint at where he was, something, anything on whom he was supposed to find? Any other time he would have found this sudden obsession odd. As it was, the thoughts kept his mind occupied. But once the rogue thought surfaced it was hard to fight it back down. Had he made up the whole thing? Those eyes and that voice were straight out of his pain-induced hallucinations. It couldn’t be, right? Cas had seemed so real, well, as real as a vision could seem. Had he just been so lonely that he was inventing the appearance of a stranger that offered the safety and comfort he was so desperately yearning for?

As time went by it was easier to convince himself that that was the case. What was harder to rationalize was the painful tightening he felt in his chest when he thought about the longing that had overwhelmed him when Cas had reached out for him. The thought made him gulp for air, a hand pressed to his chest, suddenly struggling to breathe. The sudden ease that had spread through him, filling the broken cracks left by so much inflicted pain, brought on by a single “Hello, Dean” now left him hollow and empty in its wake. He curled around himself on the cold stone floor, his face pressed against years of embedded filth, sobbing and gasping for breath as his entire world fell apart around him.

What the hell was happening to him?

As he finally drifted towards sleep, weak and broken on the floor, he found himself wishing for another glimpse of blue eyes and imagined the brush of shadowy wings across his skin.

\----------

Dean wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he had last seen Cas, but as it seemed to crawl by his worry grew. He’d taken to staring at the spot the image had been, marked by a slightly darker smudge of some unknown substance on the wall. Dean didn’t want to think about what it could have been, he couldn’t tell in the dim light anyways.

He was doing just this while trying to think of someway to get a message out to, well, anyone really when the commotion started. He didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in his own thoughts to hear the muffled shouts and the clang of metal against metal from above. The sounds of battle grew louder as they approached and Dean moved closer to the bars of his cell, staying against the wall. Was someone coming to rescue him?

The door to the dungeon crashed open and a guard’s lifeless body fell through the opening, a dark stain quickly spread across the floor around him. Dean threw his arm up over his eyes, shielding them from the sudden change in light and cursing softly. He squinted at the door, making out the silhouette of a figure stepping through the doorway. Blinking a few times as his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw a larger, burlier figure step through behind the first. He stepped back into the shadows of his cell, out of the invaders line of sight. Neither looked particularly friendly. He could hear them move further into the room, checking each cell.

“I told you he would not be here.” The voice was low, rumbling with threat and annoyance. The burly figure, for sure.

“Be a dear, Uriel, and fuck off. Do you relish the idea of returning to Rachel and telling her that we didn’t search everywhere?” This voice was strangely accented. As the pair stepped into view of Dean’s cell he could see wings folded tightly against their backs. He took a step backward as they looked into the cell, feeling vulnerable in his nakedness. The thinner angel had light hair and eyes that were the wrong shade of blue. “You.” His eyes fixed on Dean, “are there other prisoners here? Angels? Dark wings? ” He clarified, his expression changing when he noticed Dean’s lack of wings.

Dean stayed silent. They weren’t here for him, but there had to be a way to convince them to let him out at least. His mind raced and he stared at the blue-eyed angel.

The burlier angel, Uriel, moved closer and snorted. “What are you? Some kind of mud monkey?” Dean ignored his insult and moved closer to the bars.

“I’ve seen an angel with dark wings.”

“Where?”

“You help me, I’ll help you.” He bolstered his voice with a confidence he no longer felt, the cockiness sounding false even to himself. The blue eyed angel’s expression hardened.

“What do you want?”

“I need to get back home. To my brother.” Internally, he cringed. He felt guilty using Cas to bargain his way out, but his duty was to Sam. Besides, Cas might not even be who they were looking for. There had to be more angels with dark wings out there, even if Dean had never seen them. “Do we have a deal?” He extended his hand out towards the smaller angel. Uriel’s iron grip closed around his wrist and yanked him forward, slamming his body against the cold metal bars.

“You will tell us what you know, or we will leave you here to rot!” He snarled, and Dean caught a slight whiff of _wrong_ on his breath.

He recoiled away from Uriel, at the same time the blonde angel shouted, “Enough, Uriel!”

Dean stumbled back as the bastard loosened his grip and he rubbed his skin where it had started to bruise, hopefully hiding any evidence of it rapidly fading. He narrowed his eyes. What the hell was an angel doing, smelling like Azazel and Lilith? The blonde angel seemed honest enough, but his skin crawled every time the darker angel looked at him.

“Leave him here anyways, Balthazar. It is doubtful that this monkey knows anything useful.” Uriel’s dismissive tone pricked at the panic just under Dean’s skin that they really would just leave him here.

“Please. Just let me out and I will tell you everything I know.”

The blonde hesitated, even as Uriel huffed in annoyance and moved towards the door. “How do I know that you can help me?” Wariness pervaded his eyes.

Dean sighed again guilt filled him. What if they weren’t really trying to save Cas, but trying to harm him more? Where did his responsibility to a vision begin and end?

“He said his name was Cas.”

Balthazar’s eyes widened, a quick flash of hope. The angel quickly retrieved the keys for the cell from the fallen guard and with a loud metallic scream, slid the wall of bars over enough that Dean could squeeze through. First things first, clothes. Dean glanced down at the body on the floor, but the clothes were soaked in blood.

“There, I would say, is your best bet.” Dean followed Balthazar’s gesture to the cell adjacent to his. Inside a withered skeleton sat with its mouth frozen in an eternal scream. Feathers burned to ash when the angel finally died leaving dark soot marks on the floor and walls around it. The clothes were dirty, and who knew how old, but they were free of bloodstains and only slightly too small. Once dressed, he grabbed a dagger from the belt of the guard.

“Out with it.” Dean froze mid-turn to find the tip of Uriel’s sword leveled at his throat. The sound of many booted feet echoed down the stairwell.

“That will have to wait, Uriel.” Balthazar hissed, pushing past the glowering mountain of pissy angel. “We have company. Can you fight?” He asked, glancing at Dean.

Dean nodded, “I can hold my own.”

“Come on then.” Both angels moved in tandem towards the stairs, Uriel taking point, leaving Dean to hurry after them. Balthazar was faster and light on his feet, whereas Uriel’s heavier swings hacked through sentries as if he were wielding a cleaver and not the thin sword in his hands. They rose from the lower levels, taking out everyone who opposed them until finally bursting through into the room where Dean had been held for months. It looked unchanged, minus a lack of restraints, and the addition of Azazel and his hell spawn heading out the opened window.

Lilith screamed as Uriel surged forward, pinning her against the wall with a stab to her abdomen. Dean and Balthazar followed, and Dean pushed against the lure of Azazel, psychically trying to force his body to quit. Lilith’s shrieks seemed to distract him enough for Dean to push through the effect and tackle Azazel to the ground, dagger pressed into his throat.

“Do not kill him!” Balthazar commanded. Dean tossed an incredulous look over his shoulder.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I need to find Cast-” he paused, “Cas, and he knows where he is.” He came to stand over the pair as Uriel covered Lilith’s mouth, effectively muffling her screams behind his massive hand. “Where is he?”

The yellow-eyed man chuckled, then laughed. It built in volume until it was near maniacal. Dean lost his grip momentarily as the wings underneath them started to molt and the smell of rot invaded Dean’s senses. Soon the feathers faded into nothing and slimy, leathery appendages replaced them.

Dean recoiled, his knees slipping on the substance leaking across the floor. Azazel used his unsteadiness to shove him off. Balthazar moved, lighting quick, before either of them registered what was happening and stabbed his sword through Azazel’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

“Try again.” Balthazar bit the words out from between gritted teeth.

Azazel’s chuckle was pained, “I’m sorry, who?” The demon’s mouth filled with razor sharp teeth and his grin was something out of a nightmare. Dean sat frozen in place; at least he’d had the good sense to scramble back just out of reach.

Balthazar leaned closer, his hand twisting the hilt of his sword, his voice icy. Azazel hissed in pain and glared up at the looming angel. “Don’t play innocent, pit scum. Castiel. What have you done with him?”

“That worthless prince of yours?” He spit, “Who knows. He barely even lasted a week with Lilith. Pathetic.”

Balthazar growled, pulling out a dagger. “Where. Is. He?” The press of the dagger into Azazel’s throat emphasized each word.

“Maybe you should ask your mole.” Balthazar made a noise of disgust, but before he could shove the blade through Azazel’s throat, Uriel charged Balthazar, shoving him across the room. Dean watched the dagger fly through the air and clatter to the ground near him.

“Uriel! What the hell is the matter with you?!” He rolled quickly out of the way as Uriel brought his sword down in an overhead swing, meant to cleave the smaller angel in half.

“The empire has been tainted by weakness.” Uriel grunted as he swung his blade in a sweeping arch, following Balthazar’s roll.

“What are you talking about? We’ve never been stronger!”

“Lucifer should have taken the throne. It was never meant for Anna!” Balthazar dodged a quick succession of jabs, gasping when the blade caught him in the thigh. Dean watched the fight, still frozen in place, until his eyes moved to Azazel. The demon was leering at him and he could feel the oily brush of his will on Dean’s thoughts.

“Come here, Dean. Closer to me.” The sounds of fighting dropped into the background. All Dean could see was Azazel. “Come on.”

He pushed himself up, slowly crawling across the floor. “That’s a good boy. Come help me.” This close Dean could smell the burning flesh from where the sword was still holding Azazel immobile; the wound glowed white-hot. Dean stared at it, transfixed. “Pull it out and help me up.” Dean watched his hand reach up toward the hilt and grasp it. A voice was screaming in his head to stop, but he couldn’t.

“ _Dean._ ” The familiar gruff voice burned away the urgings of Azazel and cleared his thoughts. Dean’s expression hardened. He pulled his hand away from the sword and instead grabbed Balthazar’s dagger from the cold stone floor.

“Dean. What are you doing? Stop!” Dean sliced the blade across Azazel’s throat, something darker than blood flowed out of the cut but Azazel just chuckled again. “Stupid boy. Your blade can’t kill me, I’m a demon!” A thought dawned on him and he yanked the sword out of the demon’s shoulder, quickly plunging it back down into his chest, through his heart.

“Heal that one, asshole.” Wherever it touched the sword, flesh sizzled and popped. Dean watched with grim satisfaction as the light left Azazel’s eyes and his body began to disintegrate into ash. The clang of a sword brought him back to the situation at hand. Balthazar was skillfully dodging each of Uriel’s swift blows, but he was unarmed and tiring quickly. Dean ripped the sword from the floor and with a shout tossed it towards the unarmed angel.

He snatched it out of the air and with a blur of movement shoved it up into Uriel’s torso, slipping it between his armor plating. Uriel coughed, blood splattering across the floor and Balthazar's armor. He collapsed, sliding off the blade and glared up at Balthazar, eyes filled with malevolence.

“Long live the Queen.” Dean heard Balthazar whisper before movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Lilith moved slowly along the wall toward the door, trying to avoid notice. When Dean surged up after her, she ran, making it halfway down the hallway before he caught her, snagging his hand in her tangle of curls. Her feet went out from under her kicking uselessly at the floor. The gash where Uriel had stabbed her already healed over and smooth again. “Where do you think you’re going, bitch?”

She hissed at him, spinning around with unimaginable speed and sweeping his legs out from under him. Dean hit the floor, his head bouncing sharply off the stone. Lilith grabbed him and flung him down the hall and into the wall like he weighed nothing more than a pillow.

He lay at the base of the wall, stunned, and watched as the world swam around him; Lilith’s leering face loomed into view. It looked like her skin was melting off her face. Dean felt his stomach flip uncomfortably and managed to roll to the side before he threw up. When he looked again his vision didn’t spin so much and he could tell that her skin indeed was changing, not melting so much as flowing. Once pristine white wings turned black and leathery, filling the hallway. Her skin darkened to a sickly bruise color and broken shard-like teeth jutted from her mouth. The smell that emanated from her was the worst thing Dean had ever had the privilege of smelling. Rotting and burned flesh, the sweet scent of decay, sickness, and all of it tied together with the rotten egg smell of sulfur. His stomach rolled again, but there was nothing left to come up.

She laughed at him and the sound echoed through the halls and reverberated in his head. “Silly little mortal,” she cooed at him. “You can’t kill me, your own blood prevents my death. And that of my child.” She cupped her slightly distended stomach protectively. “You made this possible, dear.” When she reached out to touch his face Dean jerked away from her, staring at the blackened claws protruding from her fingertips. She laughed again.

“I shall thank you by giving you a swift death. It’s the least I can do.” Her black eyes glittered. “It’s a shame you can’t be around to see it, our glorious rule. My baby and I. We will control this god-forsaken land, open the gates of hell! My brothers and sisters have suffered for too long!” She was too busy imagining her ideal world to hear Balthazar enter the hall behind her. Dean was careful not to look at him when her eyes were on him but he saw when the grip on his sword changed and he palmed a dagger. “We shall destroy the angels with their own abilities and-”

In one swift movement Balthazar slid the dagger across the floor toward Dean and grabbed her hair, wrenching her head back at an uncomfortable looking angle. His sword blade was pressed into the dark skin of her neck and Dean could hear it sizzle where it touched.

Dean scooped up the dagger and glared up at her, a gruesome smile on his face.

"Your brothers are just going to have to wait. You're going to hell alright, but you won't be coming back."He stabbed the blade into her stomach. It must have had the same enchantment as the sword because she screamed as sparks popped around the blade. He stabbed her again and again, black viscous fluid poured down over his hands and arms, spilling across the floor. He only stopped when he was sure any fetus inside wouldn’t make it, no matter how much of his own blood she had pumped into it. He fell back, dagger clattering to the floor and her screams stopped abruptly. Her head hit the floor with a heavy thud and Balthazar cursed, kicking the head a good distance away from the body.

“God only knows if she could heal that or not. Worthless bitch.” He reached down and pulled Dean up off the floor, grimacing at the ick on his hand before he wiped it off on Lilith’s stained dress.

“She can’t heal that.” Dean said automatically. Balthazar gave him an odd look, but didn’t ask about it, instead sheathing his sword and looking around.

“Well, that was fun. Shame about Uriel and all, he was always a dick though.”

“I don’t know where Cas is.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t know where he is. I’ve seen him, dark hair, blue eyes, dark wings?” Balthazar nodded. “It’s visions or something, I don’t know, but it was really weak and he’d cut in and out.”

“He projected to you? But why you? Why not me or Gabe?” Dean wasn’t sure who this Gabe was; Cas had mentioned a brother...

“He mentioned a brother...is that you?”

Balthazar chuckled, “No, thank god, that would be Gabriel. Did he say anything else? Where he was? Anything?”

Dean racked his brain. His head was still a little fuzzy from being slammed around by Lilith but he could feel any damage healing slowly. “He did say something about tunnels. He was scared.”

“Tunnels? I’ll have to talk to Rachel, she might know something more...” He was speaking more to himself than to Dean. Dean just wanted to get back to Sammy, make sure that he was okay. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone for; anything could have happened...it was his job to take care of him.

“We should get out of here. Are you coming?” He asked when Dean failed to follow him back down the hallway, away from all the carnage of battle.

“I need to go home.”

Balthazar let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re the only lead we have to the whereabouts of Castiel. I need you to come with me and tell Rachel what you know. She’ll be better able to help if she hears it straight from you.”

“But-” Cas’s frightened expression flashed across Dean’s thoughts. Could he really leave it be? Go home and not help? He could already hear Sam’s voice in his head, telling him he had to help. “Alright, I need to check on my brother though. We can stop on the way.”

“Where?”

“Lawrence.”

“You’re turning out to be more trouble than I thought. I hope to god you’re worth it. Lawrence is way off course.”

Dean crossed his arms, “Either we check on him or I’m not going.”

Balthazar sighed then consented with a begrudging nod. “Now we just have to get out of here.”


	4. Return and Depart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It didn’t occur to you to ask what the heir to the entirety of Elim was doing astral projecting to some hunter from bumfuck Lawrence?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one! Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> 2014.09.19: Minor edits made.

Getting out was easier than they had expected. Most of the guards had been killed on the first go through and most of the servants had fled. Slaughter was the only word to describe what they walked through, the whole fortress reeked of blood and death; bodies were everywhere. They stopped in the kitchens to stock up on supplies for the journey; it wasn’t like anyone would need them anymore. Dean liberated extra weapons from some of the bodies and found better fitting clothes and a pair of boots in the guards barracks before they left the complex, permanently borrowing a pair of horses, and headed in the direction of Lawrence.

They traveled into the evening and when Balthazar declared that they would stop in a small clearing with an outcropping of boulders, Dean all but collapsed to the ground. Though his body was uninjured as ever, no amount of exercising in his cell could prepare him for a several hour ride on horseback. As Balthazar began to care for the horses Dean dragged his sore body around building a fire and setting up a quick camp.

With the fire crackling cheerfully, the two finally settled into a comfortable silence. Balthazar fussed with a cook pot while Dean dozed, sitting as close to the fire as he could bear. After a while he felt a warm bowl pressed into his fingers, he drank the simple stew down gratefully and managed a second helping before slumping over in exhaustion.

He heard movement but couldn’t seem to will his eyes to open. Balthazar sat down heavily next to him and a warm blanket of feathers settled around his shoulders. This surprised him and he glanced towards the angel with half closed eyes. Such an act was normally reserved for family, close friends, and intimate relationships. Balthazar rolled his eyes, but didn’t move away.

“You look pathetic. How do you even survive like that?” He gestured towards the emptiness of Dean’s back.

Dean chuckled, “How do you survive, having to drag feathers all over the world? All that preening.” He made a face, thinking of watching Sam stubbornly struggle with preening himself as a kid, refusing to let Dean step in and help him. He’d finally given in when Dean found him sitting behind the shed with a bucket, waterlogged wings, and an epic bitch face that said _“Don’t you dare say anything, just fix this.”_

“Good point I suppose,” Balthazar snorted. “Now,” his eyes grew serious, “tell me exactly what you saw.”

“There isn’t anything more than I already said. It was really spotty and sometimes he’d disappear completely.”

“It didn’t occur to you to ask what the heir to the entirety of Elim was doing astral projecting to some hunter from bumfuck Lawrence?”

“He seemed just as confused as I was as to why he could only- wait, what? Heir?”

“Prince Castiel? Brother to the Queen? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Dean stared at him, “You act as if I should have known what he looked like. How was I supposed to know whom I was talking to? Like you said, bumfuck Lawrence.” He turned away, watching the flames dance and sway in the breeze drifting through the clearing. “I’ve never even been within five days of Havilah, let alone had the chance to stare at portraits of princes. I don’t have that kind of free time. He just showed up to me, I don’t know what else to tell you.” Dean glared down at his hands, running a thumb over callused knuckles. “Maybe you should keep better track of your princes.”

Balthazar sighed, massaging his forehead. “I apologize. Castiel is like a brother to me; we grew up together. I was chosen to be his personal guard after adolescence; not that I seem to be much of a guard.” The angel laughed bitterly to himself before continuing. “Castiel was, is, a handful. Never content with just being the crown prince, he was always sneaking out, ditching us every chance he got. Handing out food to the poor, living as a commoner, standing up for the rights of the less fortunate, you name it.” Balthazar’s wings followed the droop of his shoulders as he sighed, weariness settling in the lines of his face. Dean could relate; Sam was all about doing the right thing too. He could see how much this was eating at Balthazar.

“It feels like I turned my back for a second, an instant, and he was gone. I had lost him.” His voice grew rough with emotion the more he talked, but the words poured out of him. He probably hadn’t told anyone any of this, so Dean stayed quiet and listened. “I lost him and there was no trace, no sign of a struggle. He was raised to fight! He handles a sword almost better than I do! I’ve spent the last few months trying to figure out how they took him. Right out of the castle itself! But I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m the one that lost him and it’s on me if anything happens to him.” They sat quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Dean really did feel for Balthazar. Sam was his whole world and the swell of panic he felt at even the _thought_ of losing his brother was almost too much. The flames continued to flicker, burning spots into his vision.

“I’d almost lost hope.”

The words came out so quietly that Dean wasn’t sure he’d heard them at all. Balthazar gripped Dean’s shoulder before standing and moving to pull out their bedrolls.

The word continued to echo around in Dean’s head. He was the cause for the guard’s renewed hope, but he still wasn’t sure that he could offer anything to this mission. He’d already told him everything he could. He didn’t even have the faintest idea where they should start looking. He had a life to get back to, Sam, Bobby needed help with the farm, Ellen counted on him to help guard the town and keep the young hunters in line. He had responsibilities to attend to.

But every time he closed his eyes, Castiel’s panicked face haunted him and the air was sucked out of his lungs. He had said he would help find him. But Sam...it was his duty to take care of Sam. He’d done what he could, gave the right people the information he had so that was enough. It’s not like he really owed Cas anything, right? _If Balthazar hadn’t shown up looking for Cas, you’d still be trapped._ A voice in his head chided him. His chest ached, sharp pain radiating from behind his breastbone. This was crazy. He was insane. It shouldn’t be anywhere close to this hard to focus on his brother and not some lost prince.

_“Shit.”_ Dean cursed under his breath as he settled down on his bedroll, wrapping his blanket around him as best he could given its small size. _Any blanket is better than no blanket_ he reminded himself.

Despite his attempts to fall asleep his thoughts kept spinning. It was all just too complicated he rationalized. He was just some hunter from a small village, trying to protect his home and his little brother. What the hell did he know about rescuing crown princes, mutiny, and demon plots? He shook his head, trying to clear the sound of Castiel’s voice in his head. He had to focus on what was important to him. He had to focus on Sam.

_You watch out for your brother, Dean._

 

\-----------------

 

He had only been gone a few months, but Lawrence seemed like something from a distant memory. It was a small town, several days from Azazel’s keep and, according to his new companion, two weeks from Havilah, the royal city. The houses were simple and the tall stone wall that surrounded the town and helped protect it from the monsters that roamed the forests outside was worn. As they passed through the village gate, waved through by the rather awestruck hunters that recognized Dean and the royal insignia emblazoned on Balthazar’s cloak, he felt far more at ease than he had in months. 

They drew stares from the townspeople, surprise because of Dean’s absence and curiosity over what a guard was doing so far from the capitol. The crowd grew as the word spread that “Dean is back and he has a royal guard with him!” Thankfully they didn’t follow the two men through town and were courteous enough to attempt to be discreet about their ogling.

The sight of the little cottage near the rear wall with the roof that severely needed some patching made Dean’s eyes burn with unshed tears. It wasn’t much, just a few rooms and a little fenced in yard. Dean always tried to keep his mother’s garden in shape, but his time away was evident in the size of the weeds he could see.

“We came back for this?” Balthazar's tone was mocking, but not unkind. Dean leaned across the gap between their horses to shove him lightly, retort cut off by the sight of the ridiculously tall man stepping out from the door of the cottage and into the overcast light. He looked even bigger than when Dean had left, though far thinner. He felt his mouth split into the widest grin he could manage when the man finally looked up, shaking shaggy hair from his face, and locked eyes with him.

“Sam!”

“Oh god, Dean!” His brother surged forward, meeting Dean as soon as his feet hit the ground. His broad gold wings spread to fold over Dean the same time his arms wrapped around his shoulders and his hands dug into the fabric of his borrowed tunic. Dean closed his eyes and breathed in his little brother, helping to ease the horror of the months in Azazel and Lilith’s care. “I can’t believe you’re really here! I thought...I thought-” He sputtered, pushing Dean away to arms length to look him over.

“I’m okay, Sammy. Really.” Relief showed in Sam’s eyes and he crushed Dean to him again.

“I tried everything! I asked around for any information on the bastard that I could find! I even tried to get a demon to help me. It should have been me. I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m sorry.” Dean choked down tears as he pat his brother on the back and smiled at him as he pulled away.

“It’s all right, I promise. No apology needed. Besides, I’m out now.” Sam rolled his eyes but his easy grin still spread across his face. He turned his head abruptly at the sound of Balthazar clearing his throat. Dean stepped back to gesture at the angel. “This is Balthazar, he helped me get out.” Balthazar dismounted and Sam shook hands with the guard briefly before pulling Dean aside, a polite smile aimed at Balthazar.

“Dean, what are you doing with the captain of the Queen’s Guard?” He whispered. Dean grimaced; of course _Sam_ knew who the guy was. He probably knew what Cas looked like too.

“Like I said, he and another guard helped me escape.”

Sam stared at him incredulously. “That’s it? Why were they there in the first place? A captain of the guard never leaves the side of...” His expression turned grave. “There’s been no news of anything happening to the Queen.”

“Not the Queen.” Dean sighed, “Could we take this inside? We’ve been on the road for the past four days.”

“Of course! Bobby will want to see you, too. I can go get him.”

“Dean, we can’t waste much time.” Sam looked sharply at Balthazar. “It will take long enough as it is to get to Havilah.”

“What is he talking about?”

Dean let out a heavy sigh, “He’s looking for the Prince and he wants me to help him, but-”

“But nothing, Winchester.” Dean winced as Balthazar strode forward and he held up his hands.

“I’m sorry I told you I would help, but I can’t.” Guilt ate at him as he watched the guard’s face darken with anger and he failed to avoid flinching as Balthazar’s icy blue eyes bored into him. He turned his head, breaking eye contact and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I hope you find your prince and all-”

“ _Our_ prince.”

“But I’m just some guy from some town. This is too big for me.” The brief silence was deafening while all eyes were on Dean. Balthazar’s eyes practically glowed with rage, Sam’s pleading for an explanation.

“So you’re just going to stay here then? Just ignore the bigger picture and bury your head into this insignificant ink blot of a village?” The fury in Balthazar’s voice cut deeply, but he glared back.

“You don’t seem to get it! This place needs me! Sam,” He gestured towards his brother, who had backed a safe distance away from the two while they argued, “needs me!” Balthazar jerked him forward, his fist balled into the front of his tunic.

“I don’t understand?! You worthless _ant._ Castiel is _my_ brother for what it matters! I’ve spent my _life_ protecting him, and you think I ‘don’t get’ how you’re feeling? You are the one who _doesn’t get_ what is at stake here! I can’t reach him! His brother, the royal fucking mage, can’t reach him, but you can. The kingdom will collapse without the crown prince to rule after Anna dies! Think about someone besides yourself!”

“I’m sorry! I am! But I am not the right person!”

“You’re the ONLY PERSON!” Balthazar shouted, shaking him angrily. Dean gripped the angel’s arms and managed to tear himself free. He landed heavily back on his feet, meeting Balthazar’s eyes, the betrayal there seemed wholly unwarranted for only having known each other for a short time. The pale blue faded into a memory of darker shades, begging to be saved.

“Dean?”

He turned to look at his brother, stepping tentatively towards them. His brother whom he’d been trying to return to. The only thing that had gotten him through the last several months. He couldn’t just turn around and leave now. It was his job to protect his brother. But could he really stay in Lawrence and turn his back on Castiel? He _was_ the only connection he had. No, he had responsibilities to Sam and to his friends. Responsibilities to this town. He’d never met Castiel. What did he owe him really?

“Dean, it’s okay.”

Dean blinked; he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. “No, Sam, it’s really not.”

Sam smiled, and even though he still looked too skinny and pale, it was easier to see past the teenager Dean had left behind and the man standing in front of him. “Really, it is. I know you’re alive now. I could ask the Justice to postpone my apprenticeship and I could go with you!”

“I’m not going.”

“Dean. You have to go. They need your help. The prince needs your help. You don’t have to stay here.”

“But the town needs me. Bobby and Ellen…I promised Dad I wouldn’t let you get into trouble.”

“Bobby and Ellen are fine. I am fine, and Dad freed you from that responsibility when he took off and got himself killed.” Sam said, a tinge of old bitterness and grief showing through, making Dean cringe. He took a breath and started over. “We, I, managed just fine when we thought you were...” Sam paused, visibly trying to choose his words carefully, “...gone. You need to do this.”

Dean’s eyes pleaded but Sam just smiled. It was small and a little sad. He wasn’t a hero; he wasn’t made for bigger and better things. He was made for this, a small town, a few friends, and his brother. He didn’t need more than that. He didn’t _want_ more than that. He just wanted to go back to his life before Azazel had shown up. Before royal angelic knights and that look on Sammy’s face.

Before Cas.

It was too late for that. He turned back toward Balthazar, who had watched the entire exchange through narrowed eyes. Before he could agree to this asinine quest his body doubled over, wracked with excruciating pain, and he knew pain. This level of pain was a beast unto itself. It ripped through him, shredding everything, laying open every nerve ending and then grinding them with rough rock salt. Sam lunged forward to catch him before his body hit the ground but Dean’s eyes, though wide open, were blind to his surroundings. He saw nothing but darkness and the sound of screaming drowned out everything else. He choked, as the coppery smell of old blood filled his nose.

“Dean, please. Please! Oh god, please! Deandeandeandean-” Castiel’s panicked pleas cut off with another scream and Dean jerked violently at the sound of snapping bone. He felt as though he was going to faint from the pressure in his head. The screams were so loud he thought his ears might bleed.

Everything stopped just as abruptly as it had started and he came back to himself, cheek pressed against the cold breastplate of Balthazar’s armor as he carried him into the small cottage Dean and Sam called home.

“Put me down. I’m not some fucking damsel in distress.” He croaked. Balthazar ignored him and placed him in the chair by the fireplace then turned to address Sam.

“Are spells like this common?”

“No, not in the slightest.” Dean tried to stand and shove past the angel in front of him, resulting in almost falling again and Balthazar pushing him back down into the chair.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Dean, you really should rest. Your whole body was shaking and you were shouting. I think you almost passed out.” Sam’s concerned tone brought back everything he had seen and he bent forward in the chair to rest his forehead on his knees. He was getting tired of feeling like he was going to empty his stomach.

“It was Cas.”

Balthazar pulled him upright, making Dean’s vision swim. “Castiel? Where is he? Is he hurt? What did you see?”

His stomach rolled and he scrambled forward, towards the door, but instead fell to his knees. He focused on taking slow, deep breaths until he felt Sam’s hand rubbing small circles on his back, soothing away some of the nausea. He was convinced his skull was splitting apart.

“He’s being tortured by whoever has him.” His voice was rough and breathy. “I think,” he closed his eyes and willed away the sick feeling building in his gut, “I think they snapped his wings.”


	5. Not Your Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, shit.” Dean said.
> 
> Balthazar rose, pausing to clasp Dean’s shoulder. “Well shit, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright boys and girls, this chapter is actually up on time (all thanks to Lybella) so be sure to tell her thanks =P 
> 
> Also just a note to tell everyone who has bothered to read this thing so far, thank you so much! We hope you stick around and enjoy the ride!
> 
> 2014.09.20: Minor edits made.

They made plans to set out in the morning, giving them time to hash out what exactly Balthazar was expecting Dean to do. He also spent the evening relishing the short time with his younger brother. Sam had grown up so much in the last few years; Dean could still remember him being a snot-nosed little kid trailing along behind him as he helped out with odd jobs around the village. He’d always been curious, asking questions all day long about anything and everything. Back then, Dean had found it mostly annoying, trying to concentrate on a task and answer all of Sammy’s inquiries.

Now he was grown, taller than Dean, with a calm, easy feel about him. He was smart, too. So damn smart and it made Dean proud. If anyone was meant for bigger and better things, it was Sam.

The three of them set to planning, filling Sam in as they went. As the sun began its decent and the sky was painted with gold and rosy pinks, Ellen burst into the Winchester dwelling with food, alcohol, Bobby, and Sam’s fiancé Jessica in tow. The tight knot in Dean’s chest loosened at the sight of all of them in his house again. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed them until Ellen pulled him into a tight, rough bear hug and Bobby squeezed his shoulder with a warm “It’s good to see you again, boy.”

Dean and Sam were both familiar with the land around Lawrence, due to their hunting, but Ellen and Bobby helped to further detail the best routes to travel. It felt just like old times again, everyone sitting around carrying on while planning out the newest hunt. Even Jess had things to input into the discussion and it made Dean proud to know that Sam had picked himself an intelligent, headstrong girl to keep him in line.

It was late in the evening, after they had all settled into their drinks and reminiscing, that Dean watched as Balthazar excused himself and quietly slipped out the back door. He made his escape a few minutes later and found the captain behind the house, sitting cross-legged in the grass. His face was highlighted in the darkness by a soft blue glow from a bowl of water he held in his lap.

“Winchester said that he’s mentioned tunnels a few times now, Rachel. We can’t just ignore it if it means we have a chance of finding him.”

A stern but sympathetic voice rippled from the water. “I understand your fervor, Balthazar, but think about it. There have been no major tunnel systems in Elim since the wendigo blight fifty years ago.”

The knight made a sound of frustration. “Yes, but it’s entirely possible that some were missed.” He paused when his voice wavered as though fighting to keep the next words unspoken. “There’s also the very real chance that he isn’t even in Elim anymore.”

Rachel’s voice sharpened, “You cannot be suggesting that they would take the crown prince _out of Elim_?”

“And if I am? What would stop them?” Balthazar challenged.

“It would mean full scale war, Captain. The last thing this kingdom needs right now is a soldier acting on emotion instead of rationale! If you think-” Balthazar cut her off with a wave of his hand, the glow faded from the water as the spell dissipated. He sat in the moonlight for a moment, quietly.

“Are you satisfied with your exceedingly poor spying?”

Dean laughed, “It wasn’t on purpose.” He shrugged, caught, and came around the house to stand in front of the angel. “Nice trick, for a guard.” He said glancing down at the now ordinary water.

“It’s a communication spell used amongst the guards. Gabriel devised it to help us keep track of Castiel.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “We all got quite adept at it in a very short time but it also has its uses for those who find themselves stranded.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully, settling down into the grass next to the angel. “So,” he started, aiming for nonchalance and missing terribly, “you’re trying to start a war?”

“I have the suspicion that Azazel was telling the truth. I think he passed Castiel along to someone with more to gain from his disappearance. Demons have been flooding into Elim through Iblim’s border. There is no excuse for it, unless they are planning something.”

The Kingdom of Iblim lay on the southern border of Elim. Where Elim was larger and filled with valleys and mountainous terrain, its neighbor tended towards dry, arid climates. The sprawling desert that started a dozen of so miles from the border was said to be impossible to traverse.

“Well, I don’t know much about politics-”

“That much is obvious.” Balthazar snorted.

“But,” Dean glared at him and continued, “Aren’t the Ibs our allies?”

“Not in the strictest sense of the word. We have a long-standing treaty with them, but they are patriarchal, and one might say that it pisses off their King to have to cooperate with the Queen. Add in Elim’s current steady economy and resource value, we make a very tempting target. It’s one thing to try and appease him by having both Gabriel and Castiel around, but with Gabriel refusing to rule and Castiel gone?” The question hung the air between them.

“Well, shit.” Dean said.

Balthazar rose, pausing to clasp Dean’s shoulder. “Well shit, indeed.”

 ------------

Despite “Rachel’s whining” as Balthazar called it, they decided to head towards the Elim/Iblim border. That was where the remainder of a major Wendigo tunnel system was reportedly located.

“Hunters and their journals, useful on facts, shit on location descriptors.” The knight grumbled as they headed away from the Lawrence valley and towards the lowlands where the line between countries blended. The going was far easier than the trek from Azazel’s compound; aided by his quickly returning to the health he had before captivity.

The air in the mountains was crisp and clear, shifting away from the more humid summer weather and into fall. Dean found himself wishing for the summer he had missed, chained to a bed. It seemed like he was always cold...

The terrain began to shift and the roads became less traveled and less maintained. While the treaty between the two countries persisted, Balthazar explain, there was hardly much trade between the two.

It was easy to fall into a sort of camaraderie with Balthazar despite the angel’s need to complain about everything and belittle Dean every chance he was given. He was aided by Dean’s discomfort after several days on horseback. It had been months, and the adjustment was not pretty. Luckily, however, his friend often seemed more focused on mocking Dean’s sores than paying attention to how quickly they healed.

As they traveled, he found himself being inundated with tales of court life as witnessed from the sidelines by the Queen’s Captain. “It was rather spectacular. Gabriel just stood up in the middle of dinner and demanded his sister go sleep with someone, anyone, just so he wouldn’t be the next in line. There was an uproar at such a lack of decorum on Gabriel’s part. The Queen just laughed at him and asked him what he would do instead.”

“What did he want to do?”

“He told her that he was leaving the court to ‘live the life of a simple street magician’. Entertaining the populace and avoiding all the politics.”

“He could do that?”

Balthazar laughed, “Not a chance. But with Castiel having reached maturity, it was just easier for her to name him as successor. She declared it right then and there, leaving poor Cassie next in line for the throne, when all he had expected that day was to sit down and eat some lamb.”

Dean found himself joining in the laughter, though it quickly turned solemn again as he tried to picture the frightened Castiel he knew as the Castiel that Balthazar spoke of so fondly.

“I wouldn’t put it past those snakes in court to pull a stunt like this though. The Duke of Sandover has been pushing to have Lucifer brought out of banishment and take Castiel’s place.”

Dean shook his head. “I think I’ll stick to beheading vampires and lighting up rougarous. Court life sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“That’s putting it lightly. Trying to keep Castiel out of trouble and worrying about the Queen is enough without having to worry about court plots and politics.”

Before Dean could respond his vision swam and he started to slide off his horse’s saddle. He clung to the pommel, bent over and white knuckled, as a woman’s laugh filled his ears. He blinked and found himself standing in a dingy cell much like the one he had escaped from. Castiel was huddled in the corner, hands over his head to shield himself, and Dean could hear the muffled chant he was repeating. The smell of old blood was back, mixing the smell of filth and excrement. The prince’s clothes were little more than rags, dark with dried blood and dirt.

“Cas?!” Dean reached towards the man as his head lifted and blue eyes met green. The laughter ceased.

“We don’t need an audience for this, now do we, feathers?” The image ripped apart as quickly as it had appeared and Dean felt himself pulled, as though from a great distance. A jolt rocked his body and he was on his back, staring up at the cloudy sky as rain began to fall, trying hard to breathe. Balthazar’s face appeared above him, leaning over.

It took a few tries but he managed a strangled, “I’m sorry. Nothing useful.”

“You fell off your horse, ‘nothing’ seems a little humble of a description.”

Dean sat up, willing the pain in his torso to fade faster. “It was weird. This time I showed up as an astral thingy to him. I think.” He shook his head to clear it. Balthazar crouched next him, concern lining the creases of his face.

“Has that ever happened before?”

“No. He seemed just as surprised as I was. Whoever was with him, a woman, could see me as well.”

“What was happening?”

Dean sighed, “It was too fast. The woman was laughing about something and he was praying or chanting or whatever. I couldn’t understand what he was saying.” He didn’t mention the flood of relief that had filled Cas’s face when he’d seen at him, or the way it had crumpled as he was wrenched away.

“Did you see the woman?”

“No.”

Balthazar mulled it over, tried for a smile that landed closer to a grimace and helped Dean to his feet. “I wish I knew what all of this meant.”

Dean snorted, “Join the club.”

From that point on, the visions seemed to cease. Dean would occasionally catch a whiff of rotting flesh or congealing blood, and once heard what sounded like Castiel screaming from a great distance, but nothing more concrete. 

He worried over what the silence could mean, until a week and a half into their search. They had just settled down for the night in a dense copse of trees just north of the lowlands, Dean closed his eyes to sleep after another long day of traveling when Castiel appeared.

“Dean.”

“Cas?” Dean sat up, looking around. The campsite looked the same, except for the fire shifting colors sporadically and the fact that Balthazar had vanished. “This a dream?”

“It seems so.” Castiel glanced about, crouched next to him. “My brother taught me this to use as a last resort and I’m out of options.”

“The visions aren’t enough?”

“They found some way to block me from projecting.” The angel tilted his head in thought before continuing. “For some reason I am drawn to you in moments of duress. Your soul stands out so much that I can’t see anything else. I’ve been trying to keep from dragging you into it, but...”

“But? What’s going on? Why am I experiencing things with you? Like a few weeks ago, I nearly passed out when they- did they...did they break your wings?” Castiel grimaced and shifted his shoulders unconsciously; his wings remained folded tightly against his back.

“I apologize, I was praying for the pain to lessen or become more manageable and you appeared like a soothing balm.” His brow knit in confusion, “I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you. This defies reason. I shouldn’t be able to project to you, or walk in your dreams and you shouldn’t be pulled into projecting if it is not an ability you possess.” The angel looked weary. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his cheeks looked sunken, his skin sallow.

“Hey man,” Dean said soothingly, “calm down. Balthazar and I are looking-”

Castiel surged forward, grabbing at Dean’s shoulders with a surprising amount of strength. “Balthazar is with you? You need to tell him that the Duke-” A high pitched whine sliced through the dream, breaking their focus and Dean’s eyes flew open, staring up at a rosy sky. The sun was rising and Balthazar sat nearby, watching him, but said nothing as Dean got up and began packing up camp for another day of travel.

A few hours into their trek, Dean spoke up, breaking the silence between them. “What can you tell me about this Duke?”

“Which Duke?” Balthazar asked, steering his horse up a gravely incline.

“How many Dukes are there?”

“Twenty-six at last count. Why do you ask?”

“Cas said something about a Duke last night. But he was pulled away before he could tell me who or what about him.”

“You spoke with him last night? When? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Balthazar turned to him, anger clouding his face.

“It was a dream. I didn’t tell you because I was trying to decide if there was anything worth telling you. I figured you’d fly off the handle anyways.”

Balthazar glared at him, “Well? Did you come up with anything, brilliant one?" 

Dean huffed out a breath. What was he supposed to say? He wanted to help Cas, but he literally had _nothing_ to go on. This wasn’t like a hunt where you knew there were just habits that every monster had. In this, he was completely out of his depth.

“Something is blocking him from reaching out, even to me now. He said they figured out a way to do it and that the dreams were a last resort. He knows I’m with you. When he mentioned a duke he was cut off and I woke up. I didn’t get any more than that.” Balthazar stared at him, face blank, then turned and continued up the slope.

He remained quiet for the rest of the day, speaking to Dean only when it was unavoidable. Dean spent the time thinking; about the plan, about Sam and the village, about Cas...he tried to think about it analytically, but that was more Sam’s department. Dean was a ‘follow your gut’ kind of guy but in this case his gut instinct wasn’t helping at all. No matter how many times he went over their encounters, he couldn’t figure out anything that would help them find Cas.

The dreams continued, though they quickly began to deteriorate every time Castiel tried to connect with him. The angel’s hell began to flicker in, eating at the edges of the dreams, transforming into torture as the prince was strapped down and carved into. Dean could never see who wielded the tools, just the deep gashes as they appeared on pale, bare flesh. He couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t interfere, he could only watch hoping that enduring Castiel’s pain with him would somehow help.

He tried to comfort Cas with stories of his life, Sam as a little kid, hunts they had been on, but the attempts seemed futile. The pain was so excruciating that he often couldn’t hear himself over the screaming. The worst was when the images slipped away and all Dean could hear was the sound of Castiel’s screams playing endlessly through the night.

No, the worst nights were the ones when all he could hear was Cas screaming for him.

Balthazar didn’t ask about the nightmares and honestly, Dean didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want him to know just how bad off Cas was or what he was going through, but as the bruises under Dean’s eyes grew darker and he slept less, it was hard to hide the concerned expression. The only thing Dean had been able to tell him was that the man holding the prince had a sharp face, sharper teeth, and a voice that practically sang as Castiel’s blood pooled on the floor.

Whoever it was knew what he was doing. Though the pain was always terrible, he was careful not to bleed the prince too much, giving him just enough time to heal up, though not completely, before setting into him again.

Most nights Castiel was delirious when Dean was able to reach him, muttering incoherently and pulling away from any physical contact. A person could only stand so much abuse before they snapped and Dean feared that Cas was getting close to his limit.

One night while they sat around the fire, three weeks out from Lawrence and about an hour away from the border, Balthazar decided to bring up the subject. “Why does he pick you?”

Dean lifted his head from where it rested on his arms to stare at the knight. “What?”

Balthazar angrily tossed a bone from the rabbit he had caught for dinner into the fire before picking up his chest plate to clean it. “Why you? Did he even try to contact me after he couldn’t reach Gabe?”

“Cas said he doesn’t know why me and not anyone else. Something about my soul. Trust me, I’m sure he would rather have someone more useful at this than me.”

Balthazar ignored his statement for a few minutes before grumbling to himself. “They’re fucking with us. They’re using something to prevent him from reaching people who matter.”

Dean pointedly ignored the barb as the angel continued on. “If they know about his ability to communicate with us regularly, this has to be someone from court. There is no way for this to not have been planned by someone close to him.”

Dean studied the tawny wings on his companion’s back, twitching as they were in frustration. They were in desperate need of grooming but Balthazar seemed to mind them less and less as the days passed by. The flight feathers refused to lie properly, ruffled even more by being carried on horseback.

Dean gestured to Balthazar’s back. “Why don’t you just fly, while I ride?” He glanced the horses, having replaced the stolen ones from the keep with ones from Lawrence. “My baby can keep up with even Sam when he flies, so speed isn’t an issue, and I hate to tell you this, but your wings look like shit.” Dean ducked to avoid the stick peevishly thrown in his direction.

“People closer to the capitol rarely fly. Those in Havilah almost never. It’s very country bumpkin of your village to fly the way they do, but still use domesticated horses.”

Dean glanced back at his horse. She was a black mare, the foal of his parent’s horses, which had been a present from a small tribe in Marah that had offered their steeds in exchange for his father ridding them of an angry spirit. He enjoyed riding like nothing else, but he knew that a lack of wings largely contributed to his ingrained fear of flying. Whenever Sam tried to carry him somewhere under the guise of ‘it’s faster this way, Dean’, he regretted it. Sam might be safe, but Dean knew all it would take was one fall. Horses were a safer bet.

“...Also, the courts see it as undignified and backwards to make yourself hot and sweaty from flight. They previously tried to stamp it out entirely in Havilah.” Balthazar continued but halted at Dean’s expression.

“You have wings. You are practically birds.” It earned him the first smile from Balthazar in weeks.

“That’s just what Castiel says. ‘The Gods gave us wings, Balth, why should we ignore their gifts?’ Though, truly, I think the court ladies would faint if someone were to see up those ridiculous get ups they wear while fly-”

A stunned silence filled their camp as Balthazar slumped forward mid-sentence, an arrow lodged underneath his left shoulder blade, the tip protruding out through his chest. Dean shook himself and quickly moved forward to access the damage, casting a thorough glance around the clearing as he did. The trees were still and quiet, no sign of an ambush but the arrow had come from somewhere. Blood darkened the white tunic the angel wore under his armor and pink foam bubbled around his mouth, choking him.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

Dean could hear laughter in the surrounding brush but he blocked it out to focus. He was praying the arrow had missed the angel’s heart, which was bolstered by the fact that he was still alive. Lung then. Balthazar’s skin was quickly becoming cold and clammy, the wound around the arrowhead sucking air as his breaths became shallow and far too fast.

“Dean.”

“Don’t fucking talk you idiot. You’ll die faster.”

He tore the angels tunic in half, using the ruined strips to wad up around the arrow tip, trying to ease his breathing. He ripped another strip to attempt to stabilize the arrow, but before he could accomplish it, he was hauled backwards by his shirt collar and hair, arms wrapping around his chest, and pinning his own.

“Now now, it seems rather rude to ignore guests to your camp.”

A tall, dark haired, man entered the circle of their campsite, slinking into the firelight. He was dressed in shades of gold and red with a complex insignia embroidered on the chest. Snowy white wings were folded neatly down his back. Several other men, dressed far more sensibly for stalking around in the woods, stepped carefully into the light. Most of them had bows, ready to draw and fire, and were clearly guards of some sort.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean snapped. The man chuckled and slid closer to Dean, cupping his chin with his fingers. Dean tried to pull away but the man’s grip was bruisingly tight as he turned his face from side to side in the light, inspecting him.

“We’ve been following you for quite some time...” His expression was hungry and Dean felt the uncomfortable but all too familiar shiver of _wrong_ down his spine. The man dropped his hand from Dean’s chin and glanced disdainfully at Balthazar as the angel attempted to climb to his feet, using his wings and sword for leverage.

“Michael...”

The man laughed as a guard moved forward to shove the angel back to the ground before moving around to restrain Dean. “Now I’m curious,” Michael said, pacing slowly around the campfire, “what is the captain of the Queen’s personal guard doing wandering around so close to my boarder? You’re so very far from your nest, little bird, and why are you travelling with such an _interesting_ creature?” He circled Dean and the guard holding him. “A creature with no wings, can you imagine? Even demons have wings.”

A growl started low in Dean’s chest. “Who the fuck are you?” He tried for bravado, but the blade at his throat was limiting. This creep was already interested enough for whatever disturbing reason, if he got himself hurt and started healing...he didn’t even want to think about it.

The man smirked and leaned in close, his breath hot and cloying against Dean’s cheek. “My name is Michael, King of Iblim, and I think I want to keep you.”


	6. Long Road to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shut up, idiot." Dean crouched over him, keeping his voice low. "I'm not going to let you die. Someone has to be the big damn hero here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long guys! Life, school, lemurs, a few rouge beluga whales, etc. got in the way of writing this part. Hopefully you all enjoy it, this one was tough to write.
> 
> 2014.10.24: Minor edits made.

“Fuck off, creep.” Dean spat. He received the guard’s knee in his back for his insolence, shoving him down into the dirt only to be hauled roughly back up to his knees.

“No, I don’t think that is how this works.” Michael said, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not really in the practice of not obtaining whatever it is that I’m after.” His fingers slid over Dean’s jaw once more, the tips of his nails digging into the soft flesh under his chin. “You will be coming with me. Your only choice in the matter is whether your friend there,” he nodded his head towards the pale shaking figure of Balthazar, hunched over on the ground, “keeps his head or not.”

Dean ceased his struggles, glancing towards his fallen companion. Responsibility weighed heavy on his thoughts. How had to come to this; that his existence could mean the death of so many people? Balthazar, Cas, and through him the kingdom itself. Dean wasn’t cut out for this. What happened to the easy days when all he had to worry about was taking care of Sam and himself? The blood staining the front of Balthazar’s tunic was a clear sign that death wasn’t far off, unless he could stop it...

His thoughts spun in his head. Was it possible? He’d seen what drinking his blood had done to Lilith, but could he pull Balthazar back from the brink of death fast enough? Serious injuries like that took some time to heal. And how on earth would he manage it without tipping off this lunatic?

“Tick tock, dear boy.” Michael sang, moving to stand over the bloodied soldier, his blade poised to remove his head.

“Fine!” Dean growled, “I’ll go with you, just get away from him.”

Michael spun around, a smile so genial you’d never know the man had been seconds away from committing brutal murder. “I’m so pleased. Let’s go.” Michael continued to smile as his guards jumped into action.

“Please, let me say goodbye.” Michael’s sharp glance clearly saw right through Dean’s act but he acquiesced, waving a hand for the guards to release him. They weren’t gentle about it and Dean fell to the ground next to Balthazar, rousing the nearly unconscious angel. The tips of his primary flight feathers were darkening with smudges of ash as the angel neared death.  

“You will not be going with him.” The angel’s voice was breathy and rough.

“Shut up, idiot.” Dean crouched over him, keeping his voice low. “I’m not going to let you die. Someone has to be the big damn hero here.”

Balthazar coughed, splattering the front of Dean’s clothing with blood. “I think you’re a little late on the ‘not dying’ part.” His smile was quick and bloody but there, briefly, before the coughing started again.

“You’re such a baby, you’re going to be fine.” Bracing himself against the pain, Dean bit down on his own tongue, blood filling his mouth. He hauled the captain to him, fitting his mouth to Balthazar’s. His hands held the back of the angel’s head, preventing him from pulling away and keeping his true actions discreet as he forced blood into his mouth. Balthazar struggled, but Dean persevered, working his tongue to keep the wound open and blood flowing. As he finally pulled away he covered the angel’s mouth with his hand.

“Swallow it,” he hissed. The angel’s eyes started to roll back in his head and Dean could see small beads of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. “Swallow it!” Weakly, Balthazar compiled, his throat working slowly until his grimace of pain transitioned into one of disgust and finally into shock as the healing took effect. Relief washed over Dean but he made sure to hide it from any prying eyes. At least he could do this, this was something he could control and Balthazar could keep looking for Cas. He just hoped it would be enough.

Dean leaned in again, pretending to kiss the angel’s forehead. “Don’t say a damn word. Play dead. For the love of the gods, just play dead.” He murmured, lips moving against skin. “Find Cas.” With that he pulled away from the hand gripping his shirt. He shot a final warning glare at the angel as he started to rise, but the man complied, falling back to the ground with a well placed death rattle. What a drama queen.

“Wasn’t that just heartwarming.” Michael scoffed, an edge of tightly controlled rage coloring his voice. “You definitely won’t be kissing any more of the Queen’s harem, my dear boy.”

“Fuck off.” Dean snapped, earning a quick strike to his cheek that made his eyes water in pain.

The king leaned in close again, his cloying breath suffocating Dean. “I will enjoy taming that vicious tongue of yours.” Dean wisely chose to remain silent, sending a silent prayer to whomever might be listening for Balthazar and maintained a mental litany of apologies to Castiel as he was dragged away through the woods toward whatever Michael had in store for him.

 

* * *

 

There was nothing but the pain. It had become his entire world and while every fiber of his being screamed out in agony, every nerve sizzled with an intensity comparable to nothing he had ever experienced, all Castiel could manage was a soft, broken cry.

“Oh hush now, dove. There’s no need for such theatrics.” The voice was cold and lilting, the sound of it slithering around Castiel in the darkened room, making his skin crawl. If he found a way out he hoped to never hear anything of its like ever again. The honey-sweet, sing-song glee in it made his stomach roll and he began to retch, bile burning the inside of his throat until an icy hand forced his mouth open and water flooded his mouth, running down the sides of his face to muffle his hearing as it filled his ears. Despite this, he still heard the the thin laugh ringing in his head as he choked.

The cold hands wrenched his head to the side and he let the water and bile mixture dribble onto the ground. Castiel squeezed his eyes tight against the burn, relishing in the brief moment of relief before his captor’s sharpened nails dug into the meat of his shoulder.

“Dean...” he managed to croak out, his face scrunching up with a mixture of pain and concentration. It was taking far too much effort to cast out his grace far enough to conect to the pulsing, bright light that hovered at the edge of his consciousness. He felt the tendrils of Dean’s strange grace trying to wrap around his own and for a fleeting moment he was free from the pain, wrapping himself in the warmth of Dean’s grace.

“Dean.” He whispered it again, reverently, trying to tighten the grip his grace had on Dean. He felt Dean start to slip and lose consciousness, but his own pain was so great he was beyond caring. He needed the comfort like a drug to escape the pain. Shockwave after shockwave of panic washed over him as Dean’s grace pulled against him but he had to do it. He needed-

His concentration broke suddenly with the spasming of his body, eyes flying open. The warmth slipped away, closed off from him like a gate slammed in his face. The dagger dug itself deeper into the crest of his right wing, dragging a high pitched scream out of his already ragged throat and shattering a myriad of glass bottles and tools throughout the room. Immediate and bone deep cold settled over him, goosebumps skittering across his skin as he began to shiver violently. The icy hand returned, pinning him down to the table while the blade was ruthlessly twisted, popping the joint. Castiel’s body rose up, back arched, limbs straining against his restraints as his fingers clawed at the stone slab beneath him.

“There there, dove.” The breath was hot on his cheek as the words were whispered into Castiel’s ear, the icy hand gently stroking the skin of his skin in a twisted display of comfort. “I wouldn’t have to do such awful things if you would only behave yourself.”

Castiel grit his teeth against the pain and glared up at the leering face of his tormentor. “Never.”

The man laughed, deftly moving the blade so it bit into the fragile bones of his wing. “Oh little prince. The only reason I haven’t gutted you like the big man wants is because you are just so entertaining. But that-” Castiel bit back another scream and the dagger was torn out of his wing, “-can easily change. Now, we can’t have you trying to contact this ‘Dean’. No visitors allowed.”

Castiel wisely stayed silent as the tip of the dagger slid across the soft flesh of his throat, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to make a point. The man turned away with a flourish and Castiel let out a small sigh of relief as the woman who helped to hold him captive came forward to bandage his wounds and wash away the blood coating his body. At least she was physically gentle, much more apt at torturing him mentally. Her long brown hair trailed through a pool of blood but she seemed to neither notice nor care as she went about her task with a brisk efficiency.

He was drug back to his cell and unceremoniously dumped on the cold stone floor. He didn’t move, lacking the strength to pull himself across the floor to his pallet. With the rough rock pressing uncomfortably into his sore body he passed out where he’d been dropped, the safety of Dean’s grace far out of his reach.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t an easy journey, even compared to what Dean was used to. Dragged through the woods by Michael’s men, they finally came upon the king’s full entourage, all ensconced in a small caravan. The caravan was mostly comfortable, stuffed full of pillows, brightly colored silks, and plush carpets.

Dean was shoved into one of the carriages making up the caravan and left alone for what felt like hours. A guard was stationed outside the only door in and out, even the windows were sealed tight upon Dean’s inspection. Stripped of his weapons and most of his other personal items, there was little for him to do but settle into the comfortable seat and wait them out. Finally the door opened and a different guard came in carrying a bowl with him. The man was solid, about Dean’s size, and carried himself as though ready for a fight around every corner. The smell of the stew wafted over Dean and his stomach rumbled embarrassingly loudly in the small space. The guard raised an eyebrow, handing him the bowl and setting a cup of water down on the bench seat next to him.

Dean sniffed at the bowl carefully, searching for a whiff of something sinister. The guard snorted, settling onto the seat across from him. “It’s not poisoned. Just road stew.” After a cursory taste Dean dug in, finishing off the bowl in a matter of minutes and mopping up the broth at the bottom of the bowl with a tough piece of bread. The guard watched him in silence. Even sitting the man exuded hostile energy tempered by a thin veneer of calm. He’d never met someone whose very presence felt as violent as this. Swirling lines of tattoos, black even against his dark skin, curled up over the collar of his linen shirt and along the left side of his face, ending near his eyebrow. Light, finely wrought armor was strap over his clothes, allowing him ease of movement without compromising his protection. Dean set aside his bowl and the two men stared at each other, sizing the other up.

“Who are you?” Dean finally asked.

“Michael assigned me to be your personal guard.”

“Babysitter seems more like it.” Dean grumbled but the man ignored it.

“We’re heading out soon, there’s a change of clothes under the seat. I’ll be right outside the carriage while we’re traveling so don’t try anything funny or I’ll have to kill you. Michael wouldn’t be happy about that.”

“Where are we going?” Dean managed as the man opened the door to step out.

“Iblim.” With that he left, slamming the door in his wake.

Soon after the carriage started down the road. Dean could hear voices as people moved around outside but kept the curtains drawn from prying eyes. What the hell did this Michael clown want with him? He couldn’t know about his healing ability. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, this was going to be another terrible situation. He could just tell. Hopefully Balthazar would be able to heal up and go save Cas.

For what felt like the hundredth time since Azazel showed up on Sam’s birthday, Dean was vulnerable and helpless to do anything but be carried along by what seemed to be sick fate. It was such bullshit. He’d been raised to be a hunter and was a damn good one, not some toy to be used or taken. He saved people and protected his family and here he was surrounded by strange, probably hostile, people with no idea of his surroundings, weaponless, and a complete and total failure to Balthazar, Sam, and...Castiel.

His thoughts spiraled downwards as the carriage bumped along the road. He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth against the hopelessness threatening to overwhelm him.

“Dean?”

He opened his eyes. Instead of the brightly colored inside of the carriage he found himself sitting in a clearing in a copse of trees. The wood was dead, every branch stripped bare of leaves and twisted, reaching spiny fingers up towards the grey sky. He turned his head, his name echoing off the tightly packed trees.

“Cas?” He tried to move and search the surrounding area but his legs were like jelly and he couldn’t push himself off the ground. “Cas?!” He yelled, with no response until the form of the angel appeared to his right. He tried futilely to push himself up and go to the Cas but the angel flickered from sight. Dean looked around again at the dark and wooded surroundings and cursed. Another damn vision. When the prince reappeared, Dean’s heart sank even further. Castiel looked terrible and the vibrancy of his projection was dim enough that Dean could make out the outlines of trees behind him. He tried to smile.

“Hey, Cas.”

The angel didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to be able to hear Dean’s voice. His eyes were closed and he swayed on his feet. His wings drooped behind him at odd angles, trailing in the dirt.

“Ca-” Dean could feel the thin wisps of Castiel’s grace tightening themselves around his own and pulling. It was uncomfortable and the pain only continued to grow as Cas tugged harder, the woods around them growing hazy and dim as Dean started to lose consciousness.

“Cas. Cas stop. Let go.” He pleaded with the angel, whose expression became more distorted. The angel’s eyes opened, glowing an eerie blue, and a great pain ripped through Dean. He could feel Castiel’s hold on his grace pull harder. It felt like he was being ripped in two and soon he was unable to draw a breath, collapsing to the ground as his grace was torn away from him.

“Cas...Castiel let go...” He whispered, fighting to breathe, but the angel seemed unable to hear him, despite the tears now flowing down his cheeks. The edges of his vision darkened until all he could see was Castiel and his senses dulled till there was nothing but the overwhelming feeling of losing himself entirely.

A shrill scream erupted from the angel, shattering the woods around them.

Dean blinked, his vision blurry and full of colour. He was laying on the floor of the carriage, thick carpet cushioning his aching body. As his vision cleared Michael’s face came into focus.

“If I wanted swooning, I’d spend my time with the court ladies.”

Dean tried to tell Michael to fuck off, but all he managed was a drunk sounding mumble from between clenched teeth. His muscles yelled as though he’d spent the day doing heavy manual labor and finished off with being trampled by Bobby’s bull. His head felt disconnected from the rest of his body, drifting absently above the scene, and light bloomed in his eyes. Attempting to move anything felt like dragging himself through mud peppered with brambles and stinging nettles. He gladly drank the water dribbled over his lips by the tattooed guard, washing the desert feeling from his mouth.

His chest ached sharply and he suppressed a shudder, remembering the feeling of his grace being torn away from him. What the hell had Castiel been thinking, trying to pull him apart like that? Dean tried to push the panicked feeling down before it could consume him. If the angel was desperate enough to resort to that, how bad off was he?

Fingers snapped in front of his face impatiently and he swallowed his nausea as he swung his head to look at Michael. The Iblim king wavered in his vision for a moment before coming into focus but Dean still had to blink a few times before he could focus on what Michael was saying.

“...are you even listening to me?”

Dean shook his head and winced at the harsh irritation underlying the king’s voice. He tried to pull himself together and managed to grimace an imitation of his usual cocky smile.

“Must be your stunning hospitality,” He rasped. “Just couldn’t keep my wits about me.”

Michael glared at him but sat back, relaxing into the plush pillows. He waved the guards away and the carriage lurched into motion again as the caravan continued on. Dean’s stomach rolled and his head ached worse with every bounce as the land transitioned into Iblim. He managed to drag himself into the heap of pillows opposite Michael and burrowed himself between them, barricading himself from the prying eyes of the king and the glare of his new personal guard. It took time but his muscles finally started to unwind and relax and he slipped into the deep sleep of exhaustion.


End file.
